Reading Black Poetry: won’t you celebrate with me and the earth is a living thing by Lucille Clifton

Hey everyone!

We are down to the last feature here in my blog. I have shared 14 Black poets in this space and I hope that you enjoyed reading and exploring their poems as much as I did.

Our last poet is Lucille Clifton. She is an honored poet and professor at St. Mary’s College of Maryland. She had written many award-winning poetry collections and children’s books for the African-American audience.

The first poem we’ll be reading is called won’t you celebrate with me.

won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

This is copied from the Academy of American Poets page.

What I love about this is how it sounds so resilient. As a woman of color, I find myself in many disadvantages with fears that are rather exclusive to my gender. If I were in a western country, worries related to my race may also surface. But this poem is very reassuring.

This poem tells us that a woman of color, despite being alone in this world, fending for herself, is capable. She will not cower or back down. She will fight whoever or whatever that aims to pull her down and survive that fight. Much love and power is packed into this short poem.

Rita Dove does talk about how “Lucille Clifton’s poems are compact and self-sufficient” and I like that about Lucille Clifton. Short but jam-packed!

The second poem, the earth is a living thing, is another short poem from Lucille Clifton.

is a black shambling bear
ruffling its wild back and tossing
mountains into the sea

is a black hawk circling
the burying ground circling the bones
picked clean and discarded

is a fish black blind in the belly of water
is a diamond blind in the black belly of coal

is a black and living thing
is a favorite child
of the universe
feel her rolling her hand
in its kinky hair
feel her brushing it clean

This is copied from the Academy of American Poets page as well.

What I love about this is (you may have guessed it) the imagery. It tells us how the earth is many things – a bear, a hawk, a fish, a diamond (I initially found it weird that this is in the list but then I realized it may be because down on an atomic level, it is alive..? MAYBE?), and a young Black girl. They do not have a common ground aside from being on earth but this poem artfully connects them and tells us the earth is living and fighting for survival like the rest of us (shambling bear, scavenging hawk, blind fish, hidden diamonds, and a little girl brushing her kinky hair which I have seen to be difficult as I saw videos and documentaries about African hair).

She has may lovely poems so please make sure to check. Aside from the two poems above, I absolutely adore poem in praise of menstruation and blessing the boats. I definitely recommend reading them.

Remember that the fight against racism against our Black brothers and sisters is still not over. Justice for Breonna Taylor’s death must be served. (Only one out of the three officers in indicted and the discussion on this decision is being questioned. That has prompted the release of the evidence the jurors considered.)

Remember that there are many ways you can help. You may find it thru this carrd link here.

Take care and stay safe.

Best,
Anj

Reading Black Poetry: Frederick Douglass + Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden

Hello there!

Today, we shall be reading two poems from famed poet Robert Hayden.

Robert Hayden is a Black poet and professor who has been praised for his history-based poetry and his experience as an African-American living in the 1900’s.

The first poem that I enjoyed reading is Frederick Douglass.

When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all,
when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole,
reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered. Oh, not with statues’ rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the beautiful, needful thing.

This is copied from Poetry Foundation’s page.

So beautiful and so full of hope! This is found in this book called The Collected Poems of Robert Hayden which was published in 1966. It is quite old, yes, but the sentiment still is something we all hold onto.

Frederick Douglass is a historical figure — an American social reformer who believed in equality regardless of race and gender. He was born into slavery, which he escaped from, and then, he fought for freedom and women’s rights through his words.

The second poem is a bit, in my opinion, more personal in nature. It is Those Winter Sundays.

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

This is also copied from Poetry Foundation’s page.

This tells us of a story about a winter Sunday back when Robert Hayden was young. At first, I thought it may be something back from before the American Civil War (from 1861 to 1865) wherein the father in the poem is a plantation worker or a slave. But if the poet is the persona in this poem, it would mean this poem is set in the early 1900’s and that would make the father a free man.

The message of this poem is sweet — a father working tirelessly and looking out for his son, making sure he is comfortable, and how his son realizes that this is love. I like the imagery and the symbolism involved in this poem. It delivers the message – love – so well.

That is all from me for now. The next post will be the last one in this series, sadly.

Til then,
Anj

Reading Black Poetry: Praise Song for the Day + Stray by Elizabeth Alexander

Hi everyone!

(This post is scheduled. Yay!)

For today, I will be sharing two poems by Elizabeth Alexander, a wonderful and award-winning African-American poet.

The first poem of hers that I will be sharing in this page is Praise Song for the Day.

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

This is copied from the Academy of American Poets’ page.

I was wandering around Poetry Foundation’s collection of poems for Black History Week and I stumbled upon this poem, which is a very memorable one to Americans. This poem was read during Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration in 2009. Obama becoming president is one big step forward for the Black community’s inclusion and fight for equality. I like how this poem gives hope, that there is someone who is living proof that skin color does not make a difference, that skin color doesn’t matter and that one day, the world will know and accept that. It is a big win for such a long and hard battle for the community.

Our next poem is called Stray. I mentioned in my Instagram post that I am fond of this poem. Please read below.

On the beach, close to sunset, a dog runs
toward us fast, agitated, perhaps feral,
scrounging for anything he can eat.
We pull the children close and let him pass.

Is there such a thing as a stray child? Simon asks.
Like if a mother had a child from her body
but then decided she wanted to be a different child’s mother,
what would happen to that first child?

The dog finds a satisfying scrap and calms.
The boys break free and leap from rock to rock.
I was a stray man before I met your mother,
you say, but they have run on and cannot hear you.

How fast they run on, past the dark pool
your voice makes, our arms which hold them back.
I was a stray man before I met you,
you say. This time you are speaking to me.

This copied from the Academy of American Poets’ page as well.

What I love about this poem is how it tells us how we are lost, how we are strays, until we find ourselves and people we would like to call our home. Not everyone is given the love and care they need and deserve upon birth. I think the man in this poem may have been abandoned at some point, to think of himself as a stray. Looking at it closely, it may seem like the woman, his wife, became a mother figure for him, a nurturing and loving figure that found him and took care of him since then.

When I first read this, I thought of it as a loving scene but then, reading it now, I see it as something relatively sad. Did he marry his wife to be sure he won’t be abandoned anymore? Did the wife love him as a man or as a son? Or maybe was the man divorced before he met his current wife? There’s so many questions left for the reader to ponder and I think that’s what makes a poem very brilliantly made.

I do hope that you are enjoying the features so far. I keep on forgetting to add the link but hey, better late than never. To help out with the BLM movement, please click this link. It will take you to a Carrd page with instructions. Please sign petitions and donate, if you can.

The seventh poet I will be talking about is Terrance Hayes. I am targeting 14 poets this time around so please look out for more features.

Best, Anj

Reading Black Poetry: Here + be careful by Ed Roberson

Hi everyone!

I am a day late again due to faulty connections. I haven’t had these posts lined up, unfortunately, so I write them down as I come along.

For this post, I will be sharing two Ed Roberson poems that I adore. I love his writing style – how his pauses for emphasis are very visual – and his use of imagery is simply beautiful!

To get things started, I will be sharing the poem I shared on Instagram, Here.

There is nothing concrete to grasp in
looking into the morning sky

The evidence of red-eye
flights east a plane drawn line presents

is not a wheelbarrow solid enough
dependency as day and night

carry   in coming and going
You don’t see the poem

saying anything you can’t see in it
White dashes of contrails’

seemingly unmoving streak towards sunrise
disquiet the pale otherwise

unpunctuated blue of dawn
breaks it off                Here is that silence

Text is copied from the Academy of American Poet’s page.

Here, written in 2011, talks of how, even if things are lacking in permanence and in sound – like contrails, they still exist. They are here. I think this poem wishes to remind people that, even if you remain unnoticed as you move along given the noise of the world and the silence that you give, you exist. You are here.

The next poem I will be sharing is called be careful.

i must be careful about such things as these.
the thin-grained oak.    the quiet grizzlies scared
into the hills by the constant tracks squeezing
in behind them closer in the snow.    the snared
rigidity of the winter lake.     deer after deer
crossing on the spines of fish who look up and stare
with their eyes pressed to the ice.   in a sleep.   hearing
the thin taps leading away to collapse like the bear
in the high quiet.    i must be careful not to shake
anything in too wild an elation.    not to jar
the fragile mountains against the paper far-
ness.    nor avalanche the fog or the eagle from the air.
of the gentle wilderness i must set the precarious
words.    like rocks.    without one snowcapped mistake.

What I like about this poem is how it seems like it is said in a whispering tone, how cautious and hushed the persona sounds. I also love the imagery involved in this poem. It brings me in a state where there are forests and log cabins and a mountain. I am not from the United States so I am not very familiar with its geography and which state has this type of terrain. (I think Canada also has this type of terrain also.)

That’s it for Ed Roberson. He has more poems in his pages at the Academy of American Poets and the Poetry Foundation. Check it out.

Next poet in this series is Elizabeth Alexander. Please stay tuned.

Thank you, Anj

Reading Black Poetry: Four Poems from Nikki Giovanni

Hi everyone!

For today, we shall be looking at not one, not two, not even three… but FOUR Nikki Giovanni poems. I have discovered more of her work and would like to share them here so I can talk about them.

One of America’s best poets, Nikki Giovanni wrote her truths through her poetry. Her works show her strong strong racial pride and respect for family. On writing, she explained, “Writing is … what I do to justify the air I breathe. I have been considered a writer who writes from rage and it confuses me. What else do writers write from? A poem has to say something. It has to make some sort of sense; be lyrical; to the point; and still able to be read by whatever reader is kind enough to pick up the book.”

To get things started, let us look at the first poem: BLK History Month, written in 2002.

If Black History Month is not
viable then wind does not
carry the seeds and drop them
on fertile ground
rain does not
dampen the land
and encourage the seeds
to root
sun does not
warm the earth
and kiss the seedlings
and tell them plain:
You’re As Good As Anybody Else
You’ve Got A Place Here, Too

Text is copied from Poetry Foundation’s page.

I could not dig up history on this particular poem but it shows one of the injustices the Black community faces: how their own story and accomplishment are not being told and honored properly all year round. This commentary talks about this.

I do agree with the commentary that there would be no need to celebrate Black History Month IF they are celebrated all year round. We don’t see White History Month because that is something we live in all year round — with many countries colonized by white people and embedded colonial mentality in the people whose lands they conquered.

Another poem of Nikki Giovannni that I love but didn’t realize that it was hers is called Mercy.

She asked me to kill the spider
Instead, I got the most
peaceful weapons I can find

I take a cup and a napkin.
I catch the spider, put it outside
and allow it to walk away

If I am ever caught in the wrong place
at the wrong place, just being alive
and not bothering anyone,

I hope I am greeted
with the same kind
of mercy.

Text is copied from Book Riot’s feature on Best Nikki Giovanni poems. (The link has 10 Nikki Giovanni poems!)

I remember reading this either on Facebook or Tumblr sometime ago and it made me rethink of all the times I killed insects – from ants (with intent) to hair lice (with intent, when I was young) to spiders (usually by accident) to cockroaches (with intent). I felt bad. They were only existing and yet, there I was ready to show them no mercy because they’re itchy and eat my food (ants), they bite me and make my head itch (hair lice), and they bring germs (cockroaches). So it makes me wonder what should I have done. Is there are more peaceful way for us to coexist with these insects?

I tend to stay away from spiders. I don’t encounter them often. They do not bother me so I do my best not to bother them. Maybe that’s why Mercy features a spider and not any other troublesome insect.

The next poem is a more recent read, entitled You Came, Too.

I came to the crowd seeking friends
I came to the crowd seeking love
I came to the crowd for understanding

I found you

I came to the crowd to weep
I came to the crowd to laugh

You dried my tears
You shared my happiness

I went from the crowd seeking you
I went from the crowd seeking me
I went from the crowd forever

You came, too

Text is copied from Book Riot’s feature on Best Nikki Giovanni poems also. (MUST READ!)

I love the premise of this poem. You get yourself out there in search for a companion in your journey through this earth – maybe a friend, a lover… basically someone who understands you and your inner workings. Finding that one person to enjoy with it such a great joy — someone who would be there through all the pain and all the happiness. And the greatest bit of it all is that the other person found you. You are found and you are loved. (My heart!)

The last one, and I think my most favorite so far, is called A Poem of Friendship.

We are not lovers
because of the love
we make
but the love
we have

We are not friends
because of the laughs
we spend
but the tears
we save

I don’t want to be near you
for the thoughts we share
but the words we never have
to speak

I will never miss you
because of what we do
but what we are
together

Text is copied from Book Riot’s feature on Best Nikki Giovanni poems also. (Go click the link to read the other seven poems they featured!)

I like this poem because of what and who it reminds me of. It reminds me of the people in my life – friends who listen well and sometimes, just look and know, friends who I spend such wonderful times with, filled with joy and amusement. It’s such a blessing to have people who care for you and understand you even if you are apart (hello COVID19) and haven’t seen each other for a while (thank you COVID19).

There’s so many more Nikki Giovanni poems to read and to appreciate. Make sure to check out Book Riot’s link! Poetry Foundation has fifteen (just scroll below to see the poems), which includes BLK History Month. Poem Hunter has 43 pieces. Book Riot’s link is the only one with Mercy so I suggest you start with Book Riot’s and then, maybe Poem Hunter. Enjoy reading!

PS: Tomorrow, I’ll be sharing Ed Roberson’s works.

Love, Anj

 

Reading Black Poetry: I Think I’ll Call It Morning + Whitey on the Moon by Gil Scott-Heron

Hi everyone!

So sorry this is up a day late. My internet connection won’t stabilize, unfortunately.

This post will showcase two Gil Scott-Heron poems that I like. In my IG post, I featured “I Think I’ll Call It Morning”.

I’m gonna take myself a piece of sunshine
and paint it all over my sky.
Be no rain. Be no rain.
I’m gonna take the song from every bird
and make them sing it just for me.
Be no rain.
And I think I’ll call it morning from now on.
Why should I survive on sadness
convince myself I’ve got to be alone?
Why should I subscribe to this world’s
madness
knowing that I’ve got to live on?

I think I’ll call it morning from now on.
I’m gonna take myself a piece of sunshine
and paint it all over my sky.
Be no rain. Be no rain.
I’m gonna take the song from every bird
and make them sing it just for me.
Why should I hang my head?
Why should I let tears fall from my eyes
when I’ve seen everything that there is to see
and I know that there ain’t no sense in crying!
I know that there ain’t no sense in crying!
I think I’ll call it morning from now on.

This is copied from Poem Hunter’s page.

Among all of the poems of his that I read so far, the one I love the most is I Think I’ll Call It Morning. This is found in Gil Scott-Heron’s 1971 album called Pieces of a Man. It is his first studio album and has many wonderful pieces. It tells us that we have power in our hands to make things better for ourselves. We must not be hopeless amidst this world’s madness. Stay strong and stand tall! Fight until the end!

The next poem is something that made a lasting impression on me, as it talks of oppression in a very simple yet very meaningful way. It’s called Whitey on the Moon.

A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face and arms began to swell.
(and Whitey’s on the moon)
I can’t pay no doctor bill.
(but Whitey’s on the moon)
Ten years from now I’ll be payin’ still.
(while Whitey’s on the moon)
The man jus’ upped my rent las’ night.
(’cause Whitey’s on the moon)
No hot water, no toilets, no lights.
(but Whitey’s on the moon)
I wonder why he’s uppi’ me?
(’cause Whitey’s on the moon?)
I wuz already payin’ ‘im fifty a week.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Taxes takin’ my whole damn check,
Junkies makin’ me a nervous wreck,
The price of food is goin’ up,
An’ as if all that shit wuzn’t enough:
A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face an’ arm began to swell.
(but Whitey’s on the moon)
Was all that money I made las’ year
(for Whitey on the moon?)
How come there ain’t no money here?
(Hmm! Whitey’s on the moon)
Y’know I jus’ ’bout had my fill
(of Whitey on the moon)
I think I’ll sen’ these doctor bills,
Airmail special
(to Whitey on the moon)

This is copied from Poem Hunter’s page.

The reason why this ended up being memorable because instead of reading it, I ended up listening to it. Poem Hunter’s pages for Gil Scott-Heron’s works have videos of a woman reading/reciting the poems. Hearing it made me realize that the speaker in the poem is struggling because he/she is oppressed by a system that was never fair to him/her and one day, he/she knows that the one responsible for this oppression will be held accountable.

I think, with the current BLM events, I think Gil Scott-Heron would be proud. Justice is being served and the oppressor is made accountable for his crime. I do hope that, the world would become a better place in the future — one that is free of racism.

Next poet to be featured is Nikki Giovanni. Please stay tuned.

Always, Anj

 

Reading Black Poetry: Power + Now by Audre Lorde

Hi everyone!

As mentioned on yesterday’s post, today’s post will feature poems by Audre Lorde.

To start, this is the poem I highlighted in Instagram last week: Power.

The difference between poetry and rhetoric

is being ready to kill

yourself

instead of your children.

I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds

and a dead child dragging his shattered black

face off the edge of my sleep

blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders

is the only liquid for miles

and my stomach

churns at the imagined taste while

my mouth splits into dry lips

without loyalty or reason

thirsting for the wetness of his blood

as it sinks into the whiteness

of the desert where I am lost

without imagery or magic

trying to make power out of hatred and destruction

trying to heal my dying son with kisses

only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.

A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens

stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood

and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and

there are tapes to prove it. At his trial

this policeman said in his own defense

“I didn’t notice the size nor nothing else

only the color”. And

there are tapes to prove that, too.

Today that 37 year old white man

with 13 years of police forcing

was set free

by eleven white men who said they were satisfied

justice had been done

and one Black Woman who said

“They convinced me” meaning

they had dragged her 4’10” black Woman’s frame

over the hot coals

of four centuries of white male approval

until she let go

the first real power she ever had

and lined her own womb with cement

to make a graveyard for our children.

I have not been able to touch the destruction

within me.

But unless I learn to use

the difference between poetry and rhetoric

my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold

or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire

and one day I will take my teenaged plug

and connect it to the nearest socket

raping an 85 year old white woman

who is somebody’s mother

and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed

a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time

“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”

Text is copied from Poetry Foundation’s page.

Audre Lorde is known for “confronting and addressing the injustices of racism, sexism, classism, and homophobia” through her work and her life.

Power is a perfect example of how Audre Lorde’s works speak of the injustice her community was facing, and is still facing, up until today. She wrote this poem in 1978, inspired by Clifford Glover’s murder and how his murderer got acquitted. 10 year old Clifford Glover was shot by Thomas Shea, an undercover cop, on April 28, 1973. He, and his partner, Walter Scott, thought Clifford and his stepfather were robbers. Clifford and his stepfather thought that THEY were going to get robbed. Shea got acquitted for a murder charge.

Doesn’t this look familiar? This was in 1973. It has been 47 years. 47 years. This event keeps on getting repeated with different people. This fact made me want to cry while I was doing the features last week. As humans, we have the capability to comprehend if someone is doing a wrong thing. Clifford Glover should have been given a chance to live out his life. He would have lived if only the cop looked better… if only the cop did not racial bias.

That is why the #blacklivesmatter movement is so important. No one should die just because of his or her skin tone. No one should feel afraid to live just because of his or her skin tone. This is what the movement is trying to get across. We all have the right to live but we can’t say ALL unless we include EVERYBODY, starting with our Black brothers and sisters. That is why we have to help them. So that, one day, we will all not be judged by our skin tone, ethnicity, size, etc. and all of us will matter.

Now is another poem of Audre Lorde that I absolutely adore.

Woman power

is

Black power

is

Human power

is

always feeling my heart beats

as my eyes open

as my hands move

as my mouth speaks

 

I am

are you

 

Ready

Text is copied from Bluestockings Magazine.

To me, this felt like Audre Lorde is asking us if we are ready to fight for the revolution revolving around the oppressed – women, the Black community, and humans who suffer inequality. She is telling us that the oppressed have power within themselves to fight for what is right. It is only a matter of being ready and we have to believe within ourselves that we are ready and we can fight now.

I wonder if we made her Audre Lorde proud with the current movement. We had many big wins since the Black Lives Matter movement started this year: Breonna’s Law seeks to ban no-knock search warrants and it’s already getting closer to being passed and George Floyd’s murderer is charged with second degree murder and now has his bail set at $1M.

Here is hoping that things will get better for the Black community in the future.

Tomorrow, I will be talking about Gil Scott-Heron! Stay tuned!

Best, Anj

Reading Black Poetry: Tired + Dreams by Langston Hughes

Hi everyone!

I did a 7-day feature of Black poetry at my IG page and I wish to do the same in WordPress as well. I think that it would look neater and amplify the voices of our Black poets as we trudge forward the fight against racism.

The first poem I will be sharing is”Tired” by Langston Hughes (1902 – 1967).

I am so tired of waiting,
Aren’t you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two-
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.

Text is copied from @epfry’s tweet.

I am thankful to @lutherxhughes on Twitter for starting a thread full of poems from Black poets.

If you‘re up to it, reply to this tweet with your favorite poem(s) by a Black poet.

— I used to lick books (@lutherxhughes) June 2, 2020

 

Believe it or not, this is the first poem of Langston Hughes that I have read and this one is my favorite. (We didn’t read his works in Literature classes back in college, unfortunately. Or maybe we did and I just don’t remember because that had been such a long time ago. 🤔)

“Tired” was first published in 1930, almost a century ago, in the publication New Masses in their February 1931 issue.

I like Tired because it is so timely, so relatable, and so easy to understand. I think Langston Hughes wrote this as a question for all of us: aren’t we tired? It is a universal wake-up call for all of us – that we should examine what is outside of our own experiences and see what we can do about it, what those worms are doing to the world’s rind. I hope that, with today’s movement, we’d be able to answer him, “Yes, we are tired and we are no longer waiting. We are doing something about it.” I’m sure he’d be proud of us if we are able to create the change needed to make this world a better place.

Another poem of Langston Hughes that I adore is Dreams.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Text is copied from Poetry Foundation’s page.

I love the imagery in this poem so much. It is very short and very concise. As a poet who writes a ton of micro poetry, this packs such a big and hard punch for a reader. You can’t miss the message of this poem.

Read about Langston Hughes at the Academy of American Poets’ website. 

I hope that you enjoyed this little feature. Tomorrow/later, I’ll be sharing Audre Lorde’s works.

Thank you for reading!

Yours truly, Anj